It was not supposed to be this way
by pumpkin314159
Summary: A law is passed stating that witches and wizards must marry. Hermione and Severus find themselves married against their will. Dark. SSHG pairing.
1. Part 1

**Disclaimer: All these characters are not mine. All this belongs to J.K. Rowling. **

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It was not supposed to be this way.

She should not have been here, this night, waiting for that man. It should have been Ron. Kind, sweet, gentle, Ron. Ron who loved her. Ron whom she loved. Not him. Not a man who could never love her because he would always love someone else.

She stood in the darkened room, too afraid to move. Her wedding night should have been with Ron, with all her friends there to see her, in a beautiful dress she picked, her hair and make-up perfectly done. Her loving parents should have been there as her dad walked her down the isle and handed her away; she should have seen the tears of joy in her parents eyes as she married the man she loved.

This night was a farce of a wedding. She wore a sundress, the only white dress she owned. The man she was marrying barely bothered to show up. The wedding was devoid of guests. Only her two best friends attended, both looking at her with pity the entire time as she was given to a man whom she didn't love and who, most certainly, didn't love her.

She was not supposed to stand in the darkened, unfamiliar rooms, with a white gold band encircling her ring finger. Circular, eternal, unending. Silver, sparkling, noticeable. There was no escape from this fate. Only death could end her sentence, and she was not willing to die. Not yet at least.

She was supposed to smile and laugh on this night, her wedding night. She wasn't supposed to stand alone in a darkened room, close to tears, as she awaited for the inevitable. For it was inevitable. They were man and wife. It was expected of her.

She was not supposed to be married to a man who used to despise her kind. _Mudblood_. Carved into her flesh, the pale white lines from the curly writing forever a part of her. It was not who she wanted to be, but who she was. It described how people saw her. It was a word that put her beneath him, beneath them all, even though she was how brightest witch of her age. It shouldn't have happened, not with him, not in the wizarding world that she saved. That they should punish her so in return!

The man silently entered the rooms, his black robes blending into the darkened room. His lank, black hair clung to his ashen face, a stark contrast to the darkness of the room. His obsidian eyes were unfathomable as he gazed at her, expressionless, drawing her into their black depths. She searched in his eyes for a hint of joy, but none was there. She searched for his soul, but there was none, or it was hidden so deeply she could not find it. The fire in her eyes disappeared, leaving behind fear, nervousness. She had never done this before, and her first time was not supposed to be with him. It should have been Ron.

The man stalked towards her. She clenched her hands together nervously. He pushed her further back into the darkened room, forceful and commanding. She could not resist. Her legs bumped onto the edge of the bed. She stood, frozen, pleading to the man whose face was concealed by shadow. The only evidence of his existence the glowing white of his pale complexion and the gleam from his greasy hair.

She was lifted, ever so gently, and set onto the bed. The man stood over her, looking down at her fearful expression. She wanted to turn over and bury her head in the pillows as if this had never happened; she would live an oblivious dream. She wanted to sink into the mattress and be buried under the sheets in a shelter of warmth as a jasmine scented woman rubbed her back and soothed her, assuring her this was just a nightmare. She was five again as her mother soothed her, murmuring softly that she would be protected. Forever. She would always be safe from the wraiths that haunt her dreams. This wasn't real. It couldn't be real. It was just a nightmare that clenched her in its jaws, a hunting dog unwilling to give up its prey.

The man stood over her, something akin to pity in his expression. No, he did not love her, but he felt sorry for her and sorry for himself. She respected the man, she even admired him, but she never loved him, and certainly never wanted to marry him. And he, he could never love her. He despised her, hated her. She was an annoyance to him, and now, he held all the power as he gazed over her.

A shiver of fear raced down her spine at the hungry expression in his eyes. There were no doubts as to what his intentions were. No one would care that she didn't want to. She was his wife. It was expected. It was required by law.

The man climbed on top of her, arms straining to hold his body weight above her as he stared down. She squirmed, uncomfortable with his scrutiny of her blemishes forever marked on her skin, visible even in the darkened room. From this close, she could smell him, a scent of cinnamon and pine, and something else. Something masculine. Something scary. He made no move to her, letting her lay there in uncomfortable silence as he ever so slowly lowered his weight onto her, until he was pressing her into the soft mattress. His greasy hair fell over his eyes and onto her face. She flinched.

She shouldn't have been in this darkened room, forced to give into the man above her. His face lowered towards her. His eyes were full of some strange emotion. Pity? Sorrow? She wasn't sure which. She could turn her head away and refuse the kiss, but there would be no point. There was no point resisting her fate.

She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping all this would go away as she went into her fantasy worlds. In these worlds, she married the man she loved. As his lips descended on hers for the first time, she imagined she was kissing her love. They would kiss, soft and gently, savoring each other for eternity. Never letting go, never hurrying, but existing. Bliss. And then his forcefulness, domineering. His breath, gentle against her quaking lips, his probing tongue and nipping teeth giving her no respite. She couldn't resist. It was inevitable.

Hands stroked down her arms, their touch light as a butterfly kiss but still there, still insistent. Cold fingers slowly pried her dress away, leaving her exposed to the chill of the air in the rooms far below the ground of the castle. The warm body pressing on top of her warmed her so she would not get goose pimples. Then, the body withdrew, and moments later returned. She felt warm flesh on flesh. Scalding, burning and tearing away unwilling innocence.

She felt a slight pressure between her legs. Upon reflex, she clenched them shut. It couldn't happen. It wouldn't. But she knew it would. No matter her desires, it would occur because the world she lived in deemed it necessary. She, their war heroine who saved them, was condemned to this fate. She was called the smartest witch of her age, but even she was powerless to resist demands of the society she belonged to. The society saw no use for her other than this. The society saw that her only use was on her back, with this man, as she would grow rounded with his child, as she would scream in agony as his baby tore through her flesh and stretched her, marked her. Her society saw her only use as a mother, raising children in a loveless home to replace the depleted population. That's what she was: war heroine, breeding stock.

Legs settled between hers. She opened her eyes again to stare into the face of the man above her. His expression was clearer now. He was conflicted. He felt hungry for her warm, human flesh. He felt guilty for forcing himself on her in this way, guilty for forcing her to bear this pain and guilty for conforming to society just as she did, too. There was no choice. This was not her dreamed of wedding night. Her husband wasn't supposed to feel guilty for what he was going to do. They should be happy, blissful. But not here. Not like this.

There wasn't supposed to be this blinding pain as the thousand little knives pierced her body. The salt of tears leaked unashamedly from her eyes, trailing down her face and leaving streaks of wetness. She emitted a sound from her lips, cutting the silence with its demanding shrillness as this piercing flame split her body into fragments. Her thighs, abdomen and lower belly ignited, and burned. With the quick thrust of a sword, her life, her innocence, was ripped away.

It was _never_ supposed to be this way.

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	2. Part 2

**Disclaimer: Once again, these characters do not belong to me. They belong to J.K. Rowling.**

**Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! One of the reviewers asked why Severus and Hermione didn't resist or flee the country. I tried to explain that in this chapter, but it just wasn't working. I'm trying to answer that in a future chapter.**

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She opened her eyes slowly. Nothing. Darkness engulfed her. No light shone through windows like it should have as dawn stretched to greet the day, soft tendrils of light seeping through every cranny and crevice. She remembered where she was, far below the surface of the Earth in a place where none wish to go. She was the daughter of Demeter, stolen by Hades and taken to the underworld, an unwilling bride, to a dark and damp place where none enter willingly. This place, this dungeon room, was her private hell.

As awareness crashed back into her, she remembered the events of the previous night, silently thankful that the darkness swallowed her vision so she could not see the reminder of her hell. Her hand reached out to the bed stand, searching for the slender piece of wood that could light her ever oppressed world. As she stretched, her hand brushed lightly against warm flesh. Her husband. She withdrew with a gasp.

The touch, though light, was enough to wake him. His eyes flew open and gazed upon her frozen form, obsidian swallowing chocolate brown in unrelenting grasp. His mind pushed into hers. She threw up her shields, but they were ephemeral and crumbled. Their weakened stone was a memory of a stronger past. How ironic that she, the bookworm, should become what she always loved, an open book. Her every thought, wish, desire could be snatched from her by that man. And no one would care. She was his wife, so he could. It was his right.

His presence seeped into her mind while he brought forth her memories of him. She was his student, eleven, waving her hand as he snarled at her and took points. She was his student, twelve, as he stared at her knowingly, angered at her theft, but proud at her talent. She was his student, thirteen, as he pushed her behind him, arm outstretched as he attempted to protect her from imminent death as the son of the moon prowled on angry paws. This memory, his kindness and unselfish bravery, made her gasp. Perhaps he didn't hate her after all.

She was his student, fourteen, as he ridiculed her teeth. She was fourteen when he watched her closely as she entered in a periwinkle dress. That Yule night, she never noticed his watchful gaze upon her face, but here in her memory, did he notice her beauty that was usually disguised? She was his student, fifteen, as he gazed at her lying on the floor silently begging him not to give the toad the potion that could make her spill her deepest secrets. Was there concern on his face as he desperately hoped she would not follow her brazen friends on a foolish quest? But she did anyways. She was his student, sixteen, as he watched her run from her undesirable date, irate, perhaps, at the foolish boy yet unwilling to intervene.

She was no longer his student, seventeen, as blood seeped down his face, his chest, his neck, arms and legs from the bites of sharpened fang. The venom flowed throughout his body, and she watched her memory in anticipation as she shoved a bezor down his throat, willing him not to die. This man who studied her memories of him brought forth memories of pain. She pleaded with him to leave, but he did not.

She was his wife, eighteen, as he gazed upon her memory of their wedding, her in a pale white sundress, the very image of a reluctant bride. The new ring upon her finger constricted her and bound her will to his. He felt her terror while standing upon the altar as the lips of snake and lion met in their first kiss in sight of disgusted guests. He witnessed her frown and barely disguised tears at their reception as his sullen self stood far away from her. They left behind a cake, uneaten, and of dancing there was naught. Then she, his wife, was trapped underneath him on the marriage bed, looking at him with pleading eyes. He felt her fear, her apprehension and her revulsion. He cringed. He watched his own actions through her eyes in barely concealed horror. By law, she was his wife and unable to resist. He brought forth her pain from the night as he claimed her as his, his former student now his wife and mother to his future kids. With each memory, he brought forth pain and she desperately wished him gone.

Silently, the older man withdrew from her mind, and with a quick flick of his wand, the world was illuminated. She blinked as black spots formed in her eyelids, but thankful to observe the room at last. It was barren, grey stone walls left unadorned. There were no windows, no light of day, no furniture save for a dresser and the bed. The bed, she noticed for the first time, was white, a strange color for the dark man. Wanting out of her hell, as impossible as she knew escape to be, she lunged away from him.

Her legs burned and her lower belly clenched in agony, the pain between her legs renewed at her violent action. She grimaced and clutched the bed as her knuckles turned white from her viper grip as she willed herself not to fall. She bit back salty tears, and in doing so she brought the taste of iron to her lips. She would not cry; the man did not deserve her tears. He was the cause of all her pain. As the sheets pulled back, she noticed it.

Red. Dark Red. Blood.

The ruby pearl adorned the snow white sheets and gleamed, a sun in its own right. Her blood. The blood of lost innocence. This was proof that last night wasn't just a dream. Fury filled her face, but there was nothing she could do. Society deemed she was his. Her anger made no difference.

Her big, brown eyes gazed into his as the spot between her legs ached. This was matrimony. It was not supposed to be this way. Her stomach grumbled loudly, and he summoned food, the concern in his eyes begging her to eat. She wouldn't. Her food was the one thing she controlled in her life. She could starve, and not even the law could force her to eat.

The sun soared higher into the sky, yet she could not leave. She was a trapped prisoner in his underground home. She couldn't see the shadows cast upon the weary world as the Earth prepared to sleep. The man returned. Not a word passed from her lips, though he pleaded her to speak. Not a piece of food passed through her lips, though he pleaded her to eat. These, she could control.

The artificial light in the room was extinguished as she laid silently in the bed. He came, weight insistently pushing down the mattress. Her supple body was pulled flush against his. Her muscles coiled as she felt the warmth of flesh on flesh. She tensed, knowing what came next. She waited. Waited. Waited. Nothing.

She sprung from the bed once more as the sun soared into the sky. Her stomach growled, and she doubled over in pain. He summoned breakfast, and held the fork to her unwilling lips. Disgusted, she turned her face. How dare he? She wasn't a dog to be fed; she wasn't his pet. No, according to society she was lower than mere pet. A pet, at least, would be loved, but she was nothing more than a useful toy, his prize for his actions in the war and the womb to nourish his children.

The food called to her as enticingly as a Siren called to sailors. She could not give in. She wanted to. The next day was the same, but the food reached out to her to her. Three days. Four days. Five days. Ten days. Each day, the food became harder to resist.

Ten. Twenty. Twenty nine. Thirty. Thirty four. Forty. Forty days had passed.

Forty days had passed since food last entered her starved body. Her stomach clenched and growled; her body needed sustenance. She was to weak to stand, to move, to walk, to even lift her head. Food was pushed into her unwilling lips. What a cruel joke, that her body would betray her. She caved. The ability to eat her food was no longer her own.

One- sweet juice of small berry wetted her parched tongue.

Two- red juice coated her lips.

Three- crunchy insides could not be cast away.

Four- still her stomach craved for more.

Five- unused jaw tiring from crunching.

Six- half a dozen and freedom irretrievable, half gone.

Seven- more juice dribbled down her face.

Eight- no turning back.

Nine- still not satisfied with meager food.

Ten- how she loathed her weakness as she continued to give in.

Eleven- his eyes intent upon her hungered form.

Twelve- a dozen.

Twelve- the number of eggs, the number of chicks she would have to bear.

Twelve- the days of joyous Christmas, a joy she would never experience again.

Twelve- the hours in the morning.

Twelve- the hours in the night.

Twelve- the number of months in a year, the number of months of her eternal winter that would be unending, dark, and cold. The summer of her youth would never come again. Twelve months a year she would spend trapped deep beneath the Earth in the fire of the underworld, her torment. Perhaps she wasn't Persephone after all, for she could never escape.

Still her body craved more, more than twelve small seeds. It no longer mattered how much she ate for she could never leave. The snake observed her eat, waiting for her moment of weakness so he could strike, bite and swell his body with undigested prey. She, the lioness, was at the mercy of the snake. It was not supposed to be this way.

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	3. Part 3

**Disclaimer: Characters and stuff belong to JKR, not me. **

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The bright orange sun finally woke from its long night of slumber, stretching as it soared above the horizon. The sweet, blessed light encircled me in its warm embrace as it lit up the newborn world and conquered the darkness of the night. Below me, tendrils of dew coated the grass and the hoof prints of a deer left evidence of the newborn world. In the distance, I saw the deer, magnificent in her glory. She was still, and I watched, unable to tear my gaze away. From behind, a smaller deer leapt forth, running in circles in unrelenting joy. I smiled gently. This morning was perfection.

The soft thud of footsteps sounded from behind me. I stayed still, unwilling to move. Warm arms wrapped around my waist, and my heart sped up as ginger coloring appeared in the corner of my eye. "Good morning, beautiful," the man's voice said.

"Isn't it perfect here?" I asked him in return. He didn't respond. There was no need. This early morning world, this freedom and beauty, was perfect. He knew, and I knew. We both understood. There was no need for further words.

The breeze gently caught ahold of my hair, dancing and playing with it as it tangled in the wind. I didn't care. The wind was free, just like me. I took off running, determined to catch the wind in all its playfulness. It was not to be, as the whispers of the air with playful ease eluded me. It didn't matter. I would still try.

My bare feet sank into the soft dirt, turning them brown as I ran unconcerned with my appearance. The wind guided me, and I followed eagerly. The grass beneath my feet gave way to flowers. Orange, yellow, blue, violet and green surrounded me. It was perfect, this world, too perfect to be a dream. The flowers gave way to forest. I ran into the woods as soft light streamed through the canopy of the trees. Birds sang and squirrels chirped and mountain lion stalked its prey. They were free; I was free. What blessed joy that life should feel this way!

I stopped before the blue snake that laid calmly, always running but moving so slowly it barely marked the passing of time. With unstoppable might it carved out the crevices of the Earth with its insistent, unceasing touch. My bare foot made contact with the clear blue stream. It was warm and it was cold. I immersed both my feet, looking down as clear water rushed over them, leaving them far behind. It didn't matter the water left me behind. I was already free.

A hand reached down and immersed itself in the water, and then flicked upwards. I shrieked as the cool water christened my face. Before me, a grinning ginger stood, sheepish look on his face. I smiled in return. He looked relieved.

Splash.

He spluttered as I laughed at the droplets of water running down his face. I turned and fled up the river from the revenge I knew he would soon unleash upon me. He gave chase, but there was no malice in his actions, for he was as gentle as a cub. Feet lifted off the ground, and I squealed and wrapped my arms around his neck, begging him not to let go. His gaze met mine, and he let out a goofish smile.

My body was flung through the air. I was a bird flying free. I was light, but soon came crashing down. Water cascaded everywhere, flying high into the air and rippling out in circles from my form. I was at the center of the circle, I was the center of the universe.

The air bubbles from my nose tickled my face as my legs kicked. Wet hair splayed out in all directions, untamable. I desperately craved air, and not soon enough my head broke the mirror on the water as I gasped, and inhaled.

"Mummy, mummy!" a child called. I turned in time for a pair of small arms to clench around my waist. I dropped to my feet, settling them on the floor of the pool. The red-haired child gazed up at me adoringly. I was the center of his world.

"Mum!" a voice cried out as arms latched around my neck. "Mum, look what I can do," the little girl exclaimed as she pushed off of me. I turned and a smile graced my face as she spun in the water, feet rising above the surface as her hands met stone floor.

"Mummy, mummy," the little boy in my arms begged for attention. His freckles were pronounced upon his face as I ruffled his hair, and arms latched tighter around my chest.

"Rose, Hugo, leave your mother alone," a man called from shore. Despite his words, he grinned. He was happy, his world perfect. And so was mine, as our red-haired, freckled children played in the water, side by side. Floating. Flying. Freedom.

I slipped on a wet rock, my head hurtling downwards. The children were ripped from my grasp by violent rapids. The frothy, white foam swallowed my protests. I kicked and struggled, but to no avail. The current swept me away, as helpless as an newborn babe. I reached out desperately for each boulder as the roaring of the river grew louder. Louder, and louder still.

I swept along faster and faster, a hurtling rocket. My speed was out of control. My limbs floundered, but it didn't help. Water flowed more swiftly towards the edge. I didn't want to go, but I was helpless to resist my fate that rushed me along the wet path, dunking my head in and out of water as I struggled to catch my breath.

With a final roar, I shot forward. Falling. Falling. Falling. Torrents of water pushed down upon my head as I fell faster towards the mysterious end. I hurtled towards the abyss below. I couldn't see below me, and above was masked with frothy white water. Foam pierced my body and surrounded me so I could not escape. There was no way out but down, and down. I didn't want to go. Some dark fate would await me there, I knew. I couldn't quite recall what was in that infernal place, but somehow I knew it was my worst nightmare.

I was suspended in the air for eternity. I was falling in place, not moving up or down. Wind rushed against my face as I descended, seemingly suspended in space. The blackness below approached. It was nearer and nearer still. I forced my eyes open. As long as they didn't close, I would be suspended in this moment forever, not yet willing to meet my fate.

Falling. My eyes glanced down. Dark blue depths were right beneath me. CRASH. The world went black.

My eyes flew open and I panted. A concerned face hovered above mine, but something was wrong. His hair was black, not red. Reality crashed back to me. The ginger man whom I loved and who loved me, our children, they were all just a dream. This was my world, my existence. I remembered at the sight of this brooding man by my side. And I, reluctant bride, was unable to escape.

The scent of cinnamon and pine flooded my nostrils as I turned away and cringed. The man hesitantly touched my shoulder, but I refused to face him. It was childish, I thought, but if I couldn't see him, he wasn't there.

How cruel was the world created in my mind, to give me all I longed for, to give me all I loved and steal it away within the moment, leaving behind only a memory of heartache. My face buried itself in the fluffy pillows. My reality. It was not supposed to be this way.

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	4. Part 4

Disclaimer: If you see stuff you recognize, it belongs to JKR, not me.

Also, thanks to everyone for your reviews. They really motivate me to write more so keep it up. A few of you asked me why Hermione and Severus didn't fight the law or flee the country, and this should (semi) answer those questions.

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"I'm sorry," the man beside her whispered, his voice rich and deep. She blinked back her tears, face pressed against the pillow even though she knew he could sense her distress. Up until a few months ago, it was unfathomable that she could cry so much. But here she was. Daybreak had barely begun, and already tears stung her eyes.

The man next to her gazed upon her slim form, unreadable expression in his eyes. His lank, black hair fell wildly down, but he didn't care, for he was more concerned for the young girl. His heart beat faster as he looked at her sorrowful figure buried in the pillows and covers, and felt something in his heart break. He didn't love her, he didn't even like her, but he still felt concerned for the woman.

"It's not your fault," she whispered almost inaudibly. He strained to hear her, so quiet was her voice. At last, she turned to face him with bravery she did not feel. She, the lioness, could not back away from the challenge. Her eyes were red and face flushed but otherwise giving no indication of her stress. Her hazel eyes looked imploringly into his. What once had been anger was resigned to calm, submissive distress. She resigned herself to her fate, the fate _they_ had forced upon her.

Her thoughts flew back to a happier time. Ron, hugging her, kissing her, caring about her. He gazed at her with puppy-dog like devotion, and her heart swelled at the memory of her love. Then there was Harry, her best friend, brave and loyal, the one person she could depend upon to be there for her. Ginny, whom she could whisper secrets to in the darkness of the night, and her only close female friend. Neville and Luna, outcasts just like her who desired her friendship, and she theirs. Most of all, she thought of her parents. After the war, she restored their memories. They were mad at first, but soon they welcomed her back, and for moments in time, she could feel like a child again, reliving a childhood that was brutally stripped away from her by the bloody kiss of death.

Then, her world collapsed, crashed, burned, bled and died. Ginny and Luna - given away just like her. Her two female friends, like her, married to men they didn't love and who didn't love them. Condemned to a marriage ordained by the chauvinists at the ministry, the same people who they saved. But it didn't matter.

They were women. Immaterial. Worthless. Their only value their wombs, the children they could produce to save the flagging population, and even then they didn't matter. No one cared that they were trapped, bound, enslaved. No one cared they were condemned to live in darkened, dreary homes, far from their friends and families, as the sight of blood was forever branded into their eyes. It was inconsequential that their flesh would sting, rip, tear, bleed and burn when their husbands spread their legs apart as they tore into their aching bodies, demanding of them pleasure and returning nothing, turning them into toys but not caring for their souls. For their hopes, dreams and emotions no one cared.

She shuddered at the fate of her two best friends. First, there was Ginny. Sweet, loving Ginny married to Bill, her brother. That the ministry would condone such an act! Words swam before her eyes.

_Oh, my dearest friend, I hardly know what to write you. I have not seen you since your wedding, and now I fear for mine. This evening, I married. I protested, screamed and cried, yet no one cared. They said they would kill him, kill Harry, if I protested. So I didn't. I married him, my brother, and now, I shudder to think what occurred. The entire night felt wrong, oh so wrong. It was not supposed to be Bill who stole from me my innocence. What a farce this is. The ministry claims it is to prevent inbreeding and to grow the population, but how can that be true when my children will call my brother father? How can this be? _

And then there was Luna, romantic, silly and affectionate Luna, so strange and innocent. Luna, married to Lucius. The ministry didn't care Lucius already had a wife, they didn't care he was too old, too cruel, for the young girl. They didn't care that Luna was married to a man who would treat her as a slave, as less than the dirt beneath his feet.

She remembered the faces of them most of all, of her parents, hovering in a damp cell, shivering, covered in grime and sweat. Their faces were hollow, pleading, looking, begging, but unable to resist the dark force of magic. Even worse was the fear alight in their minds, as muggles who didn't know her world, failed to understand what was happening to them. Tendrils of cold mist gripped them in tight grasp. Ephemeral, but eternal. Opaque, shimmering, fleeting, but a viper clenching prey in unrelenting grip. Figures cloaked in black, faceless strangers glided closer and closer. Memories, happiness, receding unable to resist the forceful tide. She clenched her eyes shut as memories overwhelmed her.

The cloaked figures approached them, her parents, hood pushed back to claim a soul that wasn't theirs as they cheated death. Her father shrunk back from the cold, looking wildly around for the figure he couldn't see. "YES!" she screamed, over and over. "YES. YES. YES." Her voice became hoarse, hollow, but it didn't matter. The cloaked figures receded, to be replaced by another. Another figure, obscured in black, swallow face staring down at her with unreadable black eyes and greasy hair framing his face. How desperately she wanted to say no, yet she could not. She couldn't let her parents loose their souls, to be left as hollow shells. In a faint voice, she confirmed her doom.

"I do."

I do. I do. I do. I do echoed through her mind. Echoing, fading away and thrusting back, its rhythm uninterrupted, slowly with gentle persistence at first but steadily faster and more furious as the apex neared. Closer, and closer the words approached the edge; they teetered, but refused to fall. She was unable to escape. No matter how much she struggled, she was unable to tear away. The two words, short but powerful, thrust at her consciousness, giving her no chance but to welcome its forceful intrusion. She was trapped. From this there could be no escape. A marriage made by Wizard law, oath and blood could not be broken or weakened.

Her eyes flew open, but reality was no more welcome than the haunted corridors of her mind. Her memories faded to the quiet buzz of a bee at the back of her mind as she left the reality of her past and faced the obscure, intangible present, the solid future still too far away to grasp.

The man's eyes revealed his concern. Their soulless depths transformed, presenting his guilt, sorrow and self-disgust. He despised what he was turned into, her captor, yet he was still a prisoner to the law.

His thoughts flew back to a time of different masters. One, a snake, cold, cruel and charismatic. His other master using him, on the surface worried for his soul but in his mind, he meant nothing more than a means to an end. He thought of the fleeting joy he felt at being released. His shackles, for the first time their heavy weight cast away.

He was free.

Free of chains.

Free of lies.

Free.

And then a new master, throwing him back behind bars, claiming freedom as its own and stripping liberty away. His choices once more out of his control. "Marry her," his new master said, "or you shall loose your soul." His unspoken threat held him in thrall. After all he did, his life he risked, he was being punished for his crimes. Capitulate or he would loose his soul to Demontor's kiss. He shivered at the thought of frigid kiss upon his lips. Really, there was no choice at all.

"I do," he whispered horsely, unwilling groom accepting unwilling bride. He, as trapped as her, yet he felt a monster for his sins, actions, as he took girl-bride for his own.

He returned to the present, yet it no less horrific than his past. Silence ensued, sorrowful eyes full of regret met each other. Their owners were different, but they were the same.

"Does it...does it always have to hurt?" Her voice was chocked, a question she didn't actually want answered. She waited with baited breath for the response. She needed to know. She was resigned to her fate - suppressing her anger but resigned - and now, at last, she needed to know.

"No." Two letters. One syllable. One word. The most difficult word he had ever said. She looked up at him, hurt and pain written on her face.

"Then why does it always hurt me?" she asked. He did not know what to say.

It was not supposed to be this way.

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	5. Part 5

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, this isn't mine. It belongs to JKR.

Sorry it took me so long to post this chapter. I just couldn't get it to turn out right.

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His shaky footsteps led him up the spiral stairs. The small steps were wildly spiraling out of control, just as his life had quickly gone to hell. There, just in his line of sight, was the top, the apex, yet not the end. It would be so easy, here, in this place, to end his life. One small step, a short plummet, and he would be free.

What did his life matter? The woman he loved was long dead, and of friends, he had none. No one cared for him; no one liked him even. He was a ship, adrift in the tumultuous ocean of his thoughts. The gentle swelling of the waves, the sudden crashes, those he could suffer. What he could not stand was the missing anchor of the ship at the mercy of the raging, its firm weight that was once there gone, leaving with nothing to chain him to shore. Nothing grounded him to life, to other people. With one leap, all that would change. He would fall freely through the air, unable to control his descent. Gravity could take over and conquer him, and he could not protest. And no one would care if he died. His family was all dead, and he had no friends. No one liked him. The only person he had left was his unwilling wife.

Wife. Her beautiful complexion marred by association with him, bruises on her legs from his touch. He hadn't meant to hurt her, but the ministry ordained their actions, the duty of man and wife. He shivered, though not from cold. His death would give him a respite from her, so that he would no longer loath himself for how he had to force himself upon her, his former student.

Yet, no matter how much he wished it, he knew he could not jump. He wasn't brave like that. He was the serpent, slyly clinging to its life and unable to let go. No, he could not jump no matter how much he wished it so.

There, he stood high above the ground, face exposed to winter's chill as the kiss of frost descended upon his pale cheeks, darkening sallow complexion into red flush. The wind bit at his face, tore and feasted, yet he didn't protest. It was pain, but only slight, and a distraction from his wretched life. The pain was his long constant companion, and a companion he readily welcomed.

Stars shone brilliantly from overhead. Millions, billions of stars. The lights belonged to different times. Times before the law, before his marriage. They shone with wisdom of a thousand years, each twinkling brightly, living and thriving in a life he could not emulate. Most brightly of all shone the North star, a guide for lost wanderers. Couldn't it help him? Could it help him wander the confusing path of his life? Would it guide him in his marriage to the girl, who, despite how much he tried, still looked like the bushy-haired know-it-all eleven-year-old waving her hand wildly in the air? Couldn't the star with infinite wisdom guide him in his path, and tell him where to go, where to act, as new master forced his life upon him?

And there, among the stars, was his wife. They twinkled brightly, full of a light devoid in his own life as he gazed upon her likeness. She stood, proudly, chained to the rocks. She, a maiden, beautiful in her own right, yet unable to escape the fate ordained upon her by men. Her slender wrists were clasped in metal shackles, her arms outstretched as he pleaded to the sea monster to let her go. Around her, his wife, waves crashed violently against the receding shoreline, foamy spray lighting upon her lithe figure. Droplets of water clung to her hair, her waist, her hands. Her clothes glued to her tightly, revealing her thin figure caused by self-imposed starvation. He could not believe his eyes, but in the stars he saw his wife.

The sea serpent slowly came closer, predatorily watching her. He wanted to turn, needed to turn, away from the sight unraveling before him to relieve the clenching of guilt in his heart. But he couldn't. He watched as the monster slowly soared through the sky, intent on consuming its captured prey. She, the sacrifice. In the stars, mother watched down from her reclined position, vain hand fanning her face as she, too, watched her daughter's fate but with less anticipation than he. Mother, protector of the young, relaxed, and let fate take its role. Mother, the ministry, condemning daughter to her fate for selfish gains.

The monster was nearer, nearer and nearer still. Yet still no knight appeared. Where was Perseus? Why didn't he come to save the girl chained to the rocks? It was not so hard to ask. He could not tear his gaze away. There was his likeness in the stars, descending upon the girl. Her bound hands outstretched imploringly towards him, yet he was the monster. But he had no choice. So Poseidon deemed him a monster, and so he would remain. He, the sea serpent, descended upon her. Perseus still did not come. Andromeda would never escape her chains.

Tears crawled from his eyes and slowly wound their way down his cheeks, staining his face with smeary lines. The stories, forever written in the stars, immutable, were now changing. He watched as the story played before his eyes. The comfort of familiarity, of predictability, was gone. Even the stars lied. They lied to him, to her, as serpent stole its helpless, bound sacrifice.

He stepped back. This, the astronomy tower, was too much for him. Here, once his place of refuge sheltered in the embrace of sky. The comfort of this place was leaving him, like the ebbing of the tide as all must do with time. And he remained, dying fish upon the shore, gasping for breath as horror and threat of death consumed his every thought. Time flew, yet his breath refused to return. His old life, it was part of a distant past that could never be touched again.

His eyes squeezed shut and he heard a laugh. It was the tinkle of bells, soft, and beautiful. There she stood, red hair and hearty smile, enticing upon her lips. She cocked her head at his sadness, and pleaded with him to be happy. She danced, sang, spun around him, encouraging him to smile, yet he could not.

She held her hand out towards him, and like a starved man he grabbed at her. As his fingers curved into hers, she slipped through his grasp, dancing away and smiling at him again. Even her eyes twinkled from the merriment in her face, and he followed. He knew he shouldn't, but he loved her. He did. Stumbling, he lurched towards her, once more grasp slipping as she danced away again. Suddenly, he realized who she was. It wasn't just any girl, but her. And he could not have her, not her body nor her mind. Her evasion of him was proof enough of that. He was not even supposed to be reminded of her. Of his love. Of Lily. She was dead. The phantom he saw was, in actuality, stone cold dead.

The very stars of the universe mocked him as his heart betrayed his mind conjuring forth unattainable images of her. And for her, he could not jump. Coward, he was, but of himself he no longer cared. His life, his purpose, was long since fulfilled. How he wished she had not saved him then, that she had let him succumb to the scythe of death as serpent's very blood killed him, the snake. For himself, he could end his life, his pain and self hatred. How he wished he could! But if he did, what would happen to her? She would still be subject to the law, still forced to marry and conceive the devil's child of a man much worse than him. He shuddered. No, he could not condemn the innocent girl to that fate, not while he could choose to live instead.

So he couldn't kill himself, he sighed, and from his midnight black robes he drew a dagger. Silver glinted in the moonlight as sleeves were pushed back. The blade glinted dangerously in his fingertips, reflecting the light as it spun and circled through his viper grasp. This would relieve his mental turmoil, perhaps not as well as death, but it would be blessed relief nonetheless.

In hand, he gripped the dagger firmly and brought silver blade to his wrist. The razor edge hovered above pale, exposed flesh. This was it, the precipice, and soon there would be no turning back. Closer, closer, the blade inched, and with slight sting, cut open vulnerable flesh. Red blood pooled at the surface of pale skin, and his grimace disappeared. This pain was not enough to drown him yet.

He brought the blade higher to just below the crease of his elbow. His rational thought was already too far gone to save him now. He was falling, into that infernal black abyss of his soul and he had no desire to stop. With determination in his eyes, the dagger arched down, splitting air and carving flesh. It dug deeper, bringing stinging pain to his arm's surface, and it felt good. Oh, so good that blessed relief. But still, the cut wasn't enough.

He tilted the blade and dragged it, his skin an apple waiting to be peeled. Slowly, gingerly, his fingers deftly worked the blade, pushing it deeper into his forearm as it dragged downwards. There, bloody flesh hung down. Blood spurted from the wound, and he smiled in elation. He knew the feeling wasn't right. Pain was not supposed to feel that way, yet he could not bring himself to care. Flesh hung by a tendril, and with triumphant smirk he tore it off. Pain. Blinding, white hot wrought iron upon his flesh. Burning, searing, destroying all of him. It was unrelenting, it wouldn't stop. Tears welled into his eyes from sensations and tremors through his body as he bit back a laugh. He was freed. Freed from the damn ministry, of guild, of her. Freed by the pain carved into his flesh by his very hand.

With a thump, the coil of skin and blood fell and coiled upon the floor, and on the piece of shaved skin the remnant of a tattoo. On the fallen flesh there was an image of a skull and a snake borne of darkest magic. This, he was not sad to see go. With loss of flesh, he truly shed a master, and that, he would not regret. This was too much for him. It was the reminder he needed. Only through pain could he slowly claw his way to freedom dragging along his clanking chains. This pain, it alone was freedom. Arm outstretched beyond the window, he tipped his arm. A drop of blood pooled there, slid, lower and lower, dangling dangerously from his arm. A gentle shake, and then it fell, descending into the darkness, the darkness to which he had already succumbed.

It raced towards solid ground, becoming invisible to the human eye. But he could still see it, bright red splashing onto pure white snow, red stain upon the purest land. The blood of lost innocence marred the newborn world, gaiety destroyed before babe could even take first breath.

Down below upon the snow, illuminated by the moon, lay a drop of blood, deepest red on purest white, and by its side lay blackest feather of raven wing.

Blood, snow and feather, the Lord of Poison's maid, equally beautiful, dangerous and cunning. Yet her parts remained on the surface of the Earth, unattainable from his great height up in the tower. Perhaps it was for the best, as mortals such as him were not meant to look upon such perfection. The perfection he could never attain.

Woozy, his consciousness returned. Light headed from loss of blood, he drew his wand, and with reluctant spell, he stopped the bleeding of the wound. It was red, rough, uneven. He knew it would never heal. What was one more scare upon his ugly body? If it tethered him to life and let him deal with emotional pain, then so be it. It was a welcome mark.

With hasty steps, he retreated, back down the spiraling stairs to return to normal life. Thud, thud, thud echoed hollowly through the dark, damp corridors. His breath was suspended, white foamy fog swirled in frigid air. He tried to push his thoughts of her away, yet it would not do. Here, in the depths of the Earth, he was the monster. He was not supposed to be like that, not supposed to be a monster, his own power beyond his control. He was forced into this, just as she was, yet who would feel sorry for him? He was older, more experienced, darker, the easy one to blame. To all the world, he was at fault. The society of which he was unable to escape would blame him for her fate. And he did to. If he were dead, she would not be married to him. He knew society despised, detested him. He did not blame them. Self-loathing filled his gut. He was a monster, by force, but a monster nonetheless.

The black haired man returned to the sanctuary of his home, but it had transformed into his hell. There, the vast black depths of ocean stretched forever in the distance, endless and eternal. He could not resist the tide that drew him into darkened depths. He, once the fish gasping for breath on land, was now the fish drowning in water, far out of its depth.

It wasn't the hopelessness or his guilt that got to him most. It was her. Her eyes looked at him pleadingly. He shook his head no. He couldn't speak, least she think the fury was directed at her. It wasn't. It was directed at his new master, who bid him marry her. As much as he loathed his marriage, he couldn't intentionally hurt her more than the law demanded. She was not at fault. She could not be at fault chained to life the way she was.

She turned her face away as he strode in, robe billowing behind him. She desperately wished he would come back telling her she was free. But she wasn't. She couldn't be. Not now. Not in this lifetime. Her once perfect reality was already destroyed, and he felt pang of regret at her loss. She was young, and once had a future before his interference in her life. But he had been forced to steal it, to brutally rip away her hopes and dreams. He knew her place as well as her. Bear him children. He shuddered. He hated the little beasts, and he certainly didn't want any of his own. But it was inevitable, that fair maiden condemned to fate, not rescued by a hero, would have his children most unwillingly. He felt his head spin, and world tilted round him as nausea slowly won its fight. He would be at fault, as her body stretched to accommodate the fruit of his seed and bring it to life. It didn't matter that he despised the act, and himself in the process. He was just the monster doing the master's will. He had no more choice than her, and this lack of freedom he detested.

His somber eyes bore into hers. He could give her no respite, and as he glared, she couldn't help the tears that leaked down her face. They were, by now, her loyal companions who conversed with her near every day. Yet, he did not mean to put them there. He was a monster. He loathed himself.

"I'm sorry." He was sincere, but she couldn't forgive him. He brought her too much pain, and although she knew he despised the act as much as her, she couldn't forget. He was her husband, so he still held all the blame.

"It must be soon," she finally said once she settled her tears. Her eyes, red and puffy, looked at him. She didn't have to specify. He knew. The law demanded the action of them. When he looked at her, his gaze seemed to ask, now? or later? Either way, he was still a monster, and his fate could never change. What did a few days matter anyways? He would still meet the devil at his death. Her answer, just as silent as his question, was obvious. There was no use putting it off. They had both already lost so much; they would not, could not, resist now.

With a swirl of black cloak, he left the living room. She followed, nervous, upon their trek to their bedroom. The door slammed shut behind her, tone reverberating through the air, and she jumped. He approached, heart beating wildly, and she knew what would happen. Her soft footsteps hastened to the bed, tiny hands shedding clothing as she went. Best not prolong the experience. He could not express how much he agreed.

His gaze raked up and down her body as long, graceful fingers worked at the buttons to his robes. She flushed at his stare, but didn't try to resist. There was no point. Not anymore. Not now.

The man's legs slipped into the cradle of her thighs. She flinched. Hurt and resignation was mirrored in two pairs of eyes. Identical, alike. They were the same. With shriek borne of blinding pain, they were one. It was not supposed to be this way.

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	6. Part 6

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter stuff. J.K. Rowling does. **

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"Daddy!" a voice shrieked. He looked down at the angelic figure, raven black curls cascading smoothly down her chubby cheeks. Her look, adoring, pleaded with him to acknowledge her.

With a slight groan, his joints, stiffened with age, bent down till he sat on the floor next to her. The girl crawled into his lap, her weight so light and gentle he almost did not notice she was there. Her tiny hands clutched and fisted his hair, and he smiled gently at her. Perhaps his life wasn't fucked up after all.

"Daddy, do you love me?" Her child's voice was full of sweet, blissful innocence. She gazed imploringly up at him, begging for an answer she so desperately craved. Internally, he panicked. What could he say? She was so young, so innocent, how could he tell her how he felt.

"Yes, Mia, I love you." She smiled brightly up at him, reassured by his simple yet profound words. She clambered from his lap and pulled his larger hand into hers, wrapping her fist around two of his fingers, too small to clutch the rest. Wearily, he stood, and let her drag him where she willed. He had long since learned her antics. Listen to the tyrant child, he knew, and do as she says.

As blistering snow gave way to spring, still she smiled up at him, innocent and alight with joy, a joy he could not bring himself to feel. He longed to be like her, free and sheltered, living what she saw to be the perfect life. If only she could remain like that forever, forever sheltered in the walls of home to never meet the darkness of his kin's world. "Daddy, do you love me?" Her question was the same. Once more, he did not know what to say.

"Yes, Mia, I love you." Simple, yet precise, and his words brought a stunning smile dancing upon her lips. She was the young child to which he could deny nothing. Once more, she grabbed his hand in her tiny one, and dragged him off to play. This spring, this world, it was improving. It was not supposed to be this way, yet here, and now, it wasn't so bad. The child, his child, was lovely in her innocence. If only she would stay away from him, he who was not worthy of her pride.

And so the year passed as he admired his growing child. One day, her hair a rats nest, cheek stained with dirt the next. He saw her at her most beautiful with a cheshire grin upon her face and twinkles in her eyes while soft ringlets framed the child's face. He saw her at her worst, covered in mud and grime, hair in disarray and blood stained eyes as blood oozed from scrapes, and gnarled scabs marred her flawless, scarless skin. "Daddy, do you love me?" Her question was still the same. It did not change, for she, the angel descended from heaven, was still unsure. And so he told her his response, just as always, if only to bring the smile to her eyes. And it did, as it never failed to do. He smiled in content.

And so the fall approached, sky darkening in shades of grey and black, white light crushed in dark abysmal depths. Chilling sting of wind against exposed flesh, and still her smile laid plastered on her face. If only he could feel that way, immune to the effects life's autumn, life's twilight, as it slowly succumbs to winter's kiss.

He could not handle the cold, the blistering isolation and flawless, frozen surface of the Earth. He must escape, leave his life behind. Even her cries of "daddy" could not bring him back. With shaky hand, he brought a flask up to his lips. Inside lies the poison. Should he drink, or not? But really, it was no choice. He must forget so that he might not cease to live. And so, he tilted his head back, flask poised at his lips, as amber liquid seared its way down his parched throat.

Fiery, it stung and burnt, and he reveled in its touch, the child by his side was quickly forgotten as rush of warmth amidst the chilling winter consumed him. His insides burned, alight with a self-made flame, and he shivered as warmth touched coldness of winter's world. Yet he could not bring himself to care. For the first time in years, he was happy.

"Daddy, do you love me?" The little chit. How dare she ask him that? Like he cared. No, he didn't care. He stood, black robes billowing behind him, intimidating the little girl seated on the ground. He advanced, and snapped at her. She sprung up, confusion and hurt written across her face.

He stalked closer, predator advancing on prey. There, she was, his child, a child whom he did not love - a child he detested. The scent of brandy wafted from his clogged pores, but no one else was around to see. The child, no longer fearless, looked up at him wide eyed, yet he did not care. There she was, the cause of his hell. If it were not for her, he would not drink himself into oblivion. So he advanced, closer and closer, never answering her question.

Intimidated, she backed away, limbs trembling ever so slightly, and then more and more as he approached. Her back pressed against the wall, and she stopped moving, a deer frozen in the headlights. She did not know what was wrong, but it was no longer her daddy before her.

He glanced up and saw an image in the window, but it was no longer him. He looked at himself, and saw a man, fat, not scrawny, short, not tall, muggle, not wizard. He looked into the window, and saw not himself, but his father. He shuddered at the sight. That he should become that loathsome man! Still he remained, powerless to overcome the shadow possessing his tortured soul. The man in the window advanced upon the helpless girl child, malevolent grin upon his face. She cringed away, yet did not flee, for she was powerless to resist.

"Daddy," she whimpered, pleading look upon her face, but he did not back away. In a drunken rage, a hand descended rapidly towards her cheek, and with the resounding sound of flesh on flesh, his hand stilled, imprinted in red upon her face. She bit her lip. The tears still came. Hastily, she brushed them away. One a year, he became like that. His rage belonged to winter's darkness. She knew that he, in this mood, did not want to see her tears. But it was too late. His hawk-like gaze had already caught sight of moisture upon her face.

Rage consumed him further, and he stalked forward, large hand gripping two smaller wrists and pinning them to the wall. She wiggled, yet to no avail. She was a mere child, not yet strong enough to resist. "Daddy." It had no effect. He did not care who, or what, he was to her, for there she stood, and he, angered at her, longed for flesh.

A simple spell, and all her clothing disappeared. The child looked away from his starving, lustful gaze, wishing a return of the rage. Anger, at least, she could handle. But not this, not this act she did not understand. All she knew was pain would come.

And come, it did.

Stretched, opened to his gaze, she struggled violently to get away. She screamed, yet there was no one there to hear. Where was her mother at this time? Simple. She was gone. Dead. There was no one left to hear her and no one left to shelter her from the pain. She was alone, powerless, at the mercy of the cruel snake.

The serpent head pressed against her in a place it should not be. She struggled, yet her hands were pinned above her to the wall and prevented her escape. His gaze at her was heated, burning, consumed in an alcoholic rage. There was only one thing he desired, and it was her. It didn't matter that she was unwilling, that she was a child and his daughter nonetheless. She had what he needed, and in his stupor his other thoughts had long since flown away.

She cried loudly now, silently pleading him to pity her and to relinquish his firm grip, yet he would not give. He would never give. The man in the window, a reflection of the past, once in a rage would never bend. He would break, destroy, mutilate and ravish. And that was it. She squirmed, but it did no good. With a sudden thrust, serpent impaled itself upon her. The child shrieked at the sensation ripping her apart, splitting and searing. Burning, taking and greedily consuming.

White hot iron pressed into her stomach, her thighs, and into her legs, igniting her core. The flames licked up her cunt, dried and searing. The blinding pain was more than she could take. "Daddy," she whimpered, the last words to pass through the child's lips as her eyelids eyelids dropped and fell, unconscious mind no longer able to bear her torment.

His form writhed, and turned, his breathing loud as gasps and grunts wracked his body. He twitched and spasmed uncontrollably. His fingernails moved upwards to draw blood from her already marred corps, but as his sharpened nails drew nearer, a hand caught his wrist in firm grip.

His eyes shot open. Sweat was plastered on his brow. There she was, looking the same as always. "Mia, oh Mia, I promise daddy loves you," he almost cried.

The woman before him stared uncomprehendingly at his form. She was young, much too young to be his wife. Yet she was. Her gaze was questioning, penetrating his very soul. He could not evade her, and so, in hurried breath, he told to her about his dream. Her eyes stared down at him, devoid of emotion, but he could sense her sympathy. Their life, the children they would have. How desperately he hoped he could be a different man, different from his father. Her pursed lips told him all, that they had no choice. They would have children, and a girl would someday call him daddy. And that, when that day came, he would be, had to be different, for her sake. His tortured dreams. It was not supposed to be this way.

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	7. Part 7

Disclaimer: This hasn't changed much, but still belongs to JKR.

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White blue light flashed through the air, briefly illuminating the world before it crashed back into darkness. A resounding rumble shook the Earth, growling unhappily. Rain lashed at the tree canopy, tearing the leaves from the branches as rivulets of water snaked their way downwards to the ground below.

Thunder struck again, this time yellow light the pitchfork striking the Earth as the ground trembled in fear. The wind whistled, louder and louder, claiming all other sounds in its shrill grasp. Far above the surface of the Earth, a dark cloud hovered on the horizon as the wind propelled it forward. The forceful gusts of howling wind did little to move the ominous cloud. For it came all the booms of thunder, the howls of reveling faeries. "Stupid humans," they seemed to say as they watched their innocent human victims, alight with mirth at human struggles. They watched as humans cowered from their jokes, and cackled. What fun it was to mess with them. They were the very source of magic. Unstoppable.

Below on the Earth's surface, he struggled to combat the fierce rain. The wind tore at his face, blurring his vision and bring tears to his eyes. The rain beat down upon him, harshly matting his soaking clothes to his skin. He looked up to the clouds, and there he saw it. The black storm cloud where he knew they watched, delighting in his torment, yet he could not see them. He could not see their beauty, nor touch their tricks. They were far too sly, too subtle.

And here he was, with them. The beautiful faeries, as perilous as they were alluring. He stepped into the forest grove, and as he passed the magical barrier, the rain stopped. Here, darkness still prevailed. There in the home of the trickster faeries, darkness would always win, and the storm, while it does not reign supreme, was the mighty steed of the playful fey, transporting them so they could continue their mischief. He saw the flowers in full bloom scattered all over the forest floor. Moss clung to the trees, as the ancient giants looked obliging down at the carefree immortals. And yet, all around was evidence of death, of mean-spirited jokes, of decay. A tinge of brown lay beneath all the greenery.

But it wasn't the dark beauty that drew him in. It was the sound. Sweet waves of music ghosted through the air, slowly pervading his ears, the melodious tones were so perfectly meshed the he was drawn in. Unable to resist the piper's call, he walked forward in a trance. He had one objective. Get to the music. That was what he needed most of all. The music. He found them, each more beautiful than the last. They danced, the light of moon shining down into their clearing despite the storm raging far above. They danced, carefree.

Red. Blue. Green. Yellow. Purple. Brown. Rich colors filled his vision, a kaleidoscope of clothing as the music upped its beat and the faeries moved gracefully with its rhythm. Step left, step right, now twirl, stomp, leap and bow. He couldn't keep track of the dance, so wild and chaotic did he find it, yet something about it drew him in. It was as beautiful as the people, a beauty they would undoubtedly fight to protect.

A tendril of the music gripped his midriff and propelled him towards the revelers. He tried to protest, knowing that there in the temptation lay the danger, but he couldn't resist. He wanted to be a part of the music and the dance, to forget the ugly life he had to leave. Here, at least, he could act free, and enjoy each moment without thought of the past, or the future. For all that existed was the present. The dance. The exhilarating freedom of movement.

In a trance, he fell into sync with the dance. Spin, spin and spin again. Leap, bend, leap, and clap. Stomp, and twirl, grab a partner. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat and create the dance anew. The exact dance didn't matter. All that mattered was that it didn't stop, that the enticing notes never stopped floating on the wind, bringing them to the dancers. He danced. Three days, and three nights, and never once did he stop. The music clutched him in its grasp, unwilling to let go. His body weakened, deprived of food and water, yet his feet would not let him leave to seek the nourishment he craved. He was enraptured in the spell and unable to break free.

His feet moved, and he danced, not caring how foolish he might look, for the dance was all that mattered. They brought him closer and closer to a table holding an assortment of foods. Strange berries and ambrosia lay there, and how he craved it. He could smell the scent of faerie food wafting through the air, overpowering the feel of the music. He needed that food. His body needed sustenance, and there it was, displayed on the table and waiting for him to take it.

He was a starving man, and greedy eyes gleamed as he took in the food. He knew he shouldn't, but the why escaped his mind. It didn't matter, he concluded. He needed it. His hand reached out towards it, and slowly grasped the ambrosia.

As if by magic, the cup of shimmering liquid ascended towards his parched lips. The din of silence reverberated throughout the clearing, and all haughty eyes turned towards him. They watched, devoid of emotion, as he took his first sip of the faerie ambrosia. And as the sweet nectar first touched his tongue, he belonged to them.

He swallowed, and put the cup down. They looked at him, each pair of eyes concentrating upon his own, as the joyous melody started anew. He tried to step away, but his feet refused to move. One step forward, then another. His feet dragged him towards the center of the clearing. It didn't matter that he was exhausted or that he could barely stand. The music, the ambrosia, called to him. He belonged to them, the faeries, and forever would he remained trapped there in the forested bower, surrounded by beauty, a beauty the faeries would kill to protect. A beauty borne not of goodness, but borne of light all the same.

As he once more embraced the dance, his feat were sore. They burned form not having a rest, from not sitting down. He desired nothing more than to collapse into the comforting oblivion of sleep, to relax and to give in, for a short time, to the world and let it do with him as it willed. But the music would not allow that. The faeries would not allow that, for he belonged to them. Their once cheerful faces turned cruel, and as he was swept along by the unstoppable force, he realized that the faeries were no better than where he had come from.

Out in the storm, the darkness, it might have been dangerous. Out there, he might not have wanted to live, to just give up. That was the easy solution, but he chose not to take that route. Instead, he sought shelter in the court of the Unseelie Faeries, for they had a promise of something more alluring than the depressing world. They were supposed to be mischievous, not evil, but not helpful either; they were not supposed to be the darkness of the human consciousness itself, yet they did not reflect the good either. They were deceptive and controlling. Sure, they might act differently on the surface, they might value jokes and have a different moral code, but they were not so different from his older masters. They were the same. Both the faeries and his old masters demanded of him his loyalty, his time, and bound him so he could not escape as they did him.

They still ensnared him in their inescapable web, their soulful music daring him too escape when they knew all too clearly that he was forever bound to him. It was his weakness in seeking them out, in binding himself to them in oath and sweet ambrosia flowing in his blood, that trapped him there. He knew that. He was resigned to his final fate, although he desperately wished it could be changed. And now that he realized how he wished he was not there, he was able to see beyond the dark beauty on the surface. Beyond the smiling faces that had turned to sneers, behind the colorful gowns that had turned all black and brown, behind the porcelain looking exterior lay the grotesque form within. They were dark and enticing and the surface, and they had lured him in.

Then, the jeering crowd parted before him, and a girl was pushed before him. Her hair was knotted and tangled, and dirt covered her skin. Dried, crusted blood remained on her arms and legs from their harsh treatment, and the faeries pushed her forward. She stumbled, and fell to her knees on the ground before him, her hair covering her face so he could not see who she was. Up close, he saw that her clothes were tattered, barely covering her abused form, and the faeries watched in rapture as he studied the girl before him. "The girl is yours," they seemed to jeer. "Do with her what you will. She belongs to you. We give you a wife, a human slave, the mother to your kids."

At that, the girl looked upwards, her pleading brown eyes connecting with his, and with a jolt, he remembered who she was. A student. Student. Eleven. Bushy-haired. Insufferable. Intelligent. Impractical. That was her. And there she was, before him, battered and bruised, covered in her own blood from gashes in her skin. Rings framed her eyes, revealing her distress. That was her fate, as his entrapment was his. He could not escape. Bile rushed to the forefront of his throat. He should not have to do this, not with a student. But so it was. It was not supposed to be this way.

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	8. Part 8

Disclaimer: If you see stuff you recognize, it probably belongs to JK Rowling.

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It was not supposed to be this way. Hermione stood on shaky legs, for once alone in her miserable existence. She did not miss the absence of the man, but as much as she tried, she could not despise him. It was not his fault. He was forced just as much as she was. Her thoughts, distracted from their purpose, returned.

Quivering, she moved towards the bathroom, each step a resounding silent thud against the floor. Pitter, patter, little feet across the floor. Then, the mirror girl stared back at her, its world just as hauntingly eerie and imperfect as her own. The world of the reflection gleamed and shone in its wondrous beauty, but it was no different from hell. The mirror world, a distorted version of her own, bore no less pain and no less suffering.

She turned her head to better catch her reflection in the light, and the mirror girl copied her. Hair, once wildly energetic, was more unkempt than ever, knotted, tangled and long. Yet neither she nor mirror girl cared to fix it. What was the point? None, save to please a husband undeserving of her attentions. She quirked her eyebrows, mirror girl mimicking her. This drew attention to the eyes, eyes lined with dark brown bags, a mark of lack of sleep. Mark, now, the scratch upon the face. Mark the bruise upon the neck and arms. Marks, identical in each world.

Another mirror pulled from a drawer, and faced the other mirror. She looked into the other world, seeing limitless possibilities. Each mirror world was unique, each containing a mirror girl just like her, growing far more distant and much smaller. The endless corridors of the mirror worlds, infinite possibilities, but just one end. One end for mirror girl, to bear the brunt of pain displayed on her body. To bear the marks that she was his. Pure and simple, she was his. He might not want her, but she was his none the less. It didn't matter which world she looked at, they were all the same. She, like hundreds of mirror girls, identical in their looks. It didn't matter what happened before. They were all the same, all condemned to this fate. Here they all stood, trapped in a gilded cage. The cage was shinny, expansive, broad, but a cage nonetheless. And they, mirror girl with brown hair, slowly turning grey then white, they, mirror girls, the same. They were identical. They were different.

Each one was trapped in the endless cage, on display for a society dominated by males, and the mirror girls the abused animals submissive to their wills. They were not the masters, but the tamed beasts, who lived for food, and shelter. And for their life they payed the price in blood. Their blood. Shed for their children, children they did not want to bare. They, the wilting flowers, contained the seed of new life, for so the law decreed, and so it would be. Each mirror its own hell, each hell different and the same.

With trembling fingers her hands snaked down. Button, unclasped, and zipper pulled down her pants slid down curved hips. There, she stood, facing mirror world, and unable to bear its scrutiny, she backed away. One piece left. One thin piece of cotton left before she knew her fate. With baited breath, she stripped slender piece away.

Blood stained the cloth, and shivers ran through slender frame. She wasn't, that was all she could think. Not, negative, no, failed. The blood there, seeping from her body, revealed all. She wasn't pregnant. Not yet, at least.

Her body started shaking uncontrollably, her legs no longer able to support her meager weight. With a thump, she collapsed down onto the floor. Gravity forced her, the force of Mother Earth pulling her weight into its firm embrace. She couldn't right her self, stand, or crawl as her muscles, lax, refused to work. Her mind screamed at her, told her this wasn't dignified to be prostrate upon the floor, but there was naught she could do to quell the tremors of fear rising in her body.

One time a week, the law decreed. Once a week, with no respite unless seed implanted in the womb and flourished, grew rapidly. Without the security of pregnancy, he would come to her again this week.

Her body rocked on the floor, but her eyes ran dry. The waterfalls had long since turned to rivers, to streams, to mere drips, and then stopped at last. She could cry no more. She wouldn't cry anymore. This, her fate, her life, was all she had. She would not give them, the ministry, the satisfaction of seeing her cry. Not anymore. She learned to control her tears, and now, they wouldn't come. She was not weak. She was strong. Strong enough the resist them in the small ways, to fight, to live despite her pain, yet not strong enough to stand.

She was not weak. She could not be weak. They wouldn't understand. He wouldn't understand. And it wouldn't matter. The torrent of her life would continue its steady, curving path regardless of her actions. There, she could lie upon the floor as she was now, a sack of potatoes, lumpy, still, unmoving, letting fate do with her what it will. It would be easy, to lay there forever without sustaining her body as sustenance slowly left, as parched lips needed water and the mind, the rest of sleep. And as she would lay there, the current could sweep her supple body away, churning it, swallowing it as it slowly sank beneath the surface of foamy white rapids, as light air of unfazed youth emptied from her lungs to be replaced by heavy weight of thirsty water, thirsty for her life. Her blood. The river of her life would sweep her away, and kill itself. It would a self-murdered be. But that wasn't what she wanted. She wasn't weak like that. No, she would be strong. Her mind shut her body down, making it an uncontrollable mess, rendering her unable to even stand on her own. She wouldn't let it. She couldn't let it. What little free will she had left would not be stripped from her that way! Heavy, uncooperative muscles protested hasty movements, but she refused to stop. On her knees, stronger but still submissive as when she laid on the floor. No, it was not enough to crawl, but she must stand. Tired arms pushed her upwards, and slowly, slowly, her legs could stand.

Tentatively, she took a step. It was too much. She collapsed again. Laying on the floor, she pushed herself up once more. She was the master of her body, not her fearful mind. She, alone, was in control. The ministry could take away her love, force her into marriage, force her to become a mother, but her walking, that she would control. Her fear could not take that from her.

Standing on her legs again, she took a step and wobbled, collapsing back down. She was no better than a baby. The baby, at least, could not be faulted for inability to stand. But she, she should be able to master her body.

Shakily, she stood once more upon her feet. Step. Fall. Push. Step. Fall. Push.

Endless repetition. Step by step, she made her way across the floor, with each step a fall due to unsteady legs. But to her, it was victory. She couldn't walk yet, but she wasn't submitting either. Freedom, that she didn't have. But she would not let her free will be stripped completely away.

How many times she fell she could not count. Was it ten, or twenty? It didn't matter. Step. Stumble. Still. She didn't fall. Triumph lit her face. No, she would not submit, not while she could walk on her own two legs. Mind, consumed by fear, was overcome. This, she could do. Not for herself, not for mirror girl in mirror world, but to spite them, who forced this upon her.

A drop of blood rolled down her thighs, a reminder of the cause of her fear. The end of this week, she would consummate her marriage yet again. But this time, she decided she wouldn't just lay there as he dominated her from above, even as he made the action as quick as possible to spare her pain. No. She would demand of him what he demanded of her. This time, she was determined she would not feel pain.

She, free will somewhat returned, would use cunning mind. She would force him to submit to her, to give her pleasure as she him. He said it didn't always hurt, and despite all the pain he caused, she believed him. His words that night had rung of truth, and now, she would hold him to that.

The ministry wanted her to be miserable, and threatened killing all she loved in the process. But they wouldn't win. She would no longer submit to their unjust rule, a rule that lowered her beneath them. She was a woman, but she wasn't weak. She was stronger. Stronger than men. She would win against them. She would no longer lie upon her back as her husband selfishly claimed her. She was worth more than that. For the first time in months, a small smile twitched upon her lips. Her fate was no less than hell, but for the first time in a long while, she would control her fate. It didn't matter the cost. This week, it would be about her as much as him. She would not feel pain.

Her life, her hell, would not look like that of mirror girls in mirror worlds. She wouldn't suffer silently. No. She would take control, and reclaim her life, her mind, her sanity, and her body. The law, the ring upon her finger said she belonged to him. The power he held over her, no, she could not let it last. Her fate, her world. It was not supposed to be this way. But it was, and she an irreplaceable part of it. It could not triumph.

With determination in her eyes, the smile slowly reached her eyes. They would not triumph. The might have won the first few battles, but she would win the war. She would embrace her fate with open arms, abide by the law as dictated, but by enjoying it, she would spite them. It was meant to hurt, meant to sting and control women. But she would protest by allowing it, by encouraging it in her life. Her husband and her future children would know that she was in charge of her life, not them, not fate, not law. Mirror girl and mirror world were not her concerns. They could be pitiful, but she would not be. She wouldn't give the ministry that victory.

When the time came next, she knew. Knew what she would do to control, to bring back her dignity and blunt the pain. Her emotional pain, turmoil, it could never fade, would never fade, but they would never know. Of her husband she would demand he treat her as he ought, as his equal. They might say she was beneath him, in birth, years and sex, but she knew better. Free will told her so. This life she lived was hell, but she still lived. She would do more than just exist. The fiery depths of the underworld, the scythe of death, had not yet claimed her as its own, so still she would fight this cold, cruel, abusive world. It was not supposed to be this way.

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	9. Part 9

Disclaimer: same as always

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She stood abruptly when he entered, supporting herself firmly on shaky legs. He approached, face cold and unreadable, yet she did not back down. She wouldn't. She couldn't. Not now. Her shoulders were held stiffly and her back straightened, making her taller. For once, she was determined to tower over him, but to her dismay, she still had to tilt her head upwards to see his face, but she still would not back down. She was his equal, and she knew she could never back down again. If she backed down, she would forever be submissive to his will.

His dark gaze probed her mind, but for the first time she didn't shrink back. She didn't cringe. Finding her resolve, she glared back defiantly. The law still controlled her, but he no longer could. She stretched on her tiptoes, and their faces meet, eye to eye, her gaze level with his. She was more now. More than just his toy, more than just his slave. She was herself. She couldn't let her determination fade.

His face was black, impassive, and he shoot her a questioning look. It said nothing and everything. Tremors wracked her body from his closeness, head hovering next to hers, infiltrating her space. Just a breath of air divided them, and if either moved, they would touch.

Touch. She shivered. He, her former jailor, who would run his hands along her body, memories of all the times his greasy hair fell onto her face as his chapped lips met hers in unwanted kiss. That was what she hated, what she could not stand, the weakness she felt around him in the marriage bed. If he touched her, her fears would win the battle in her head, and yet she could not let them. If they touched, she would be overcome with fear. Fear of him, fear of her own body. But she couldn't back away. It was time the lioness confronted the snake. If fear won out, the determined lioness would never again summon courage to resist her fate.

He saw her quaking, eyes narrowed in bewilderment. Time slowed, stilled and stopped. The two stared in the frozen moment, neither blinking or looking away. Neither would give in first.

With a deep growl, he turned and strode away, air catching in his robes. She breathed a sigh of relief, and followed him wearily. That was the moment, but she hadn't won yet.

He collapsed onto the couch, back straight and poised so that he could stand at a moment's notice. She hesitated and quickly followed his example. She looked behind him, and there she stood, mirror girl in mirror world. But now, in mirror world her hands were bound before her in a silken green tie. Its fabric was soft, not chaffing at her wrists but restricting her all the same. And he, his mirror self, held her down.

"No," she gasped. It could not be like that. Not here. Not now. He could not bind her down. She might have been dragged past the gates of hell, consumed in flame in the black abyss, freedom taken away. But she could still try, still fight, and so she did.

She waited in horror as mirror girl stumbled and was caught by mirror man, and then forced to her knees. Mirror man grasped her unruly hair and forced her head down so mirror girl could not even look at him. Delight filled his eyes at her pose for he was in control. She frowned at the girl's treatment. How could the man? She, too, deserved her independence, not bound and thrust upon her knees, submissive to that man.

While mirror girl, prostrate, fell trapped by the snake, so did she. With startling clarity, she jumped and ran. She ran towards the mirror girl, whom she alone could save, and with the shatter of fragile substance, reflective shards cascaded towards the carpeted floor.

Pain. She gasped and looked at her fist, splattered in blood and embedded with razor sharp beads of glass. But the pain did't matter, for mirror girl was free. She might be destroyed, but at least she could choose her own path and follow it to meet her destiny. Be it short or long, she was free. Free to choose and to resist, able to break the secure tie about her wrists.

Mirror girl was dead at last and she was finally free. She gazed back at the man, soaked in blood but grinning maniacally. She wasn't happy, no. Joy had long since been sucked from her life, but that newfound sense, that she could live with. Perhaps she could raise up heaven from hell, and with it, be herself again. She was no slave. They would not conquer her.

As mirror world disappeared, so do the bars of the gilded cage. Their rich entrapments vanished. It did not matter what apparent luxury lay in wait behind them, what wealth could be found in their whispering lies, because her cage was her confinement, her prison, and she could finally escape. Its bars, once firm, melted and disintegrated before her eyes. With outstretched wings, she flew free.

She soared, higher and higher, spiraling as wind took over her movements. Her wings extended and caught the draft below them, and she moved forward, rapidly flying free. The sting of air upon her face was sweet as she basked in the warm glow of the sun. That was what it was to be content, what it feels like, that freedom from the infernal cage.

She flew upwards, past the fiery depths of the land below Earth's surface, towards the middle Earth where she once used to reside. She watched those who remained there, still happy in their ignorance, and she pitied them. They may not know it but they were trapped as surely as she ever was. But still her journey was not over. With flap of strengthened wing, she ascended again. She mounted the stairs in the sky, climbing without fear. She was free. Nothing could harm her now.

A chill descended upon her, yet she continued her journey. She was flying not just past empty space but time as well. She was flying back to the beginning, flying upwards to the source of her birth, where all come from. A cold breeze bit at her face, and tears stung her eyes from the cold yet she did not turn away. As she ascended, rivulets of water appeared, rushing downwards towards Middle Earth. She did not envy them. She was going to a better place. She was going back to the beginning, back to the origin, the place where all started.

She climbed closer to the sun, yet the world grew darker. The cold was no longer biting, but burning. It ran so cold it lit her entire body on fire. And she was alone, with nothing, no means to create fire. And yet she was closer to her goal. Just a few more flaps to go. The rivers that once ran with nature's sweet nectar were frozen now.

They once ran, providing man with savory drink, but now, they became twisted and tangled in the passages of the sky. She soared upwards, working her way through the labyrinth and praying she did not get lost. Her journey was nearing the end. She could not give up, not after all she had done.

It was darker. She could barely see, and she realized that she preferred the fiery depths of hell. There, at least, lay warmth and light, but here, there was none. That cold was the frigid touch of death, but still she wanted to keep going, to approach the beginning of time and the womb from which the infinite worlds of possibility were born.

She saw nothing, and her wings could barely move so frozen were they by the cold. Her determination never faltered. She would reach the first world or die in the attempt. Shards of ice hung suspended in the air, and she broke through the surface, and she rested upon the ground of her destination.

She, the bird, transformed back into her normal self as her body was covered in gooseflesh and chattering whimpers claimed her lips. The world of ice was a wonderland, dark and mysterious. Its snow and ice covered plains were all that lay in the desolate world, extending forever in all directions. In the blazing cold, warmth bubbled to the surface. She approached, steam from the spring burning her skin and turning it red. But she didn't back away. That warmth was familiar. She needed the warmth, the fire, for it was from the warmth that all life first took shape. This spring, guarded by the warrior of the skies, was where all came from, and where all returns to when it dies. She was at Hvergelmir, the origins. Her crushed spirit died the moment it was set free to return to this place. And she was there, she was at the beginning of the unending cycle, the circle that will never end. She herself was the beginning, the middle and the end. Fog descended over the highest of all the realms, and she could no longer see. For her love, a mother's love, it must be blind. But she was more than blinded as the fog's wet moisture coated her, white milk to feed the baby. She knew she could not accept her fate after all.

And here she knew it wasn't just forced upon her. She desired it. For some strange reason she wanted it. She wanted what this place, wrought of the cold and dark and ensheathed in coats of fog, represented. She wanted to be the origins of life, a speck so small it cannot be seen to travel the labyrinth of the world to reach the first one, to be the source of rivers, the mother that kept the children alive. Here, at Nifleheim, she had all that.

"I open at the close." Her beginning was her end. It was not supposed to be this way, but it was. She approached the spring, leaning her face down towards it, trying to discover the secrets hidden in its depths. Its unending depths lead downwards to other worlds. She moved closer still, steam scalding her face, yet a morbid fascination drew her closer. Her foot stepped down upon loose rocks, and as it landed, she started to slide. Her arms flailed, and she screamed. Her body raced towards the spring, falling and falling. She clung to the ground above her, but it all gave way, collapsing in upon itself. She fell with bits of rock and dirt, tumbling towards the boiling depths.

Splash. She hit the bottom. She was on fire. The searing heat of boiling water scalded her skin. Her skin, pure white, turned red, and redder. It was maroon, and it transformed into scaly dragon hide as blisters formed upon the reddened surface. Her flesh was melting in the intense heat, her brain was overheating. She could no longer think. The water pulled her below the surface. Her head was completely encased, and as she drew in breath, the water flooded inside her lungs. By all laws of man, she should be dead.

Her skin was soggy from the water, and the outside layer peeled away, leaving a wreath of red blood floating around her in the water. The current pulled her down, down back to middle Earth, down below. As it descended, the flames of water cooled. That burning heat started dissipating, but it was not enough to revive her. Her mind had already given up consciousness, no longer able to deal with burning pain.

Down she went, back the way she came. She left the beginning of all worlds, and traveled down, closer to escape, and independence. Falling. Falling, no longer moving down. The air and water rushed into her ears, pounding and crushing them. She woke just as she crashed back to the ground.

She looked up from the floor, and he towered above her, concern etched onto his somber face. "Are you alright?" he asked the familiar question upon seeing blood seeping from her knuckles. She looked around. She was still in the cage. The door might be open, but her escape was short lived. She knew that if she fled again, the cage would draw her back inside its stunning, deceptive depths. The prison door was open, yet she could not truly break free. All that was, all that it appeared, was an illusion.

"It's time," she said at last, "it's time." He didn't have to ask what she meant. Her gaze said all. She accepted it, her fate, and the pleading look in her eyes disappeared, to be replaced with determination. And with a shock, he realized. She wanted it. She wanted kids. He pulled her hand in his, her soft, unblemished skin a sharp contrast to his, and healed her wound. The blood stopped seeping, the shards of glass were removed and blood was siphoned away, leaving her skin as pale as it was before. Now, he was the only one who could not accept it, he was the one who feared it. Her acceptance startled him. It is not supposed to be this way.

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